James Swain - Shadow People

Liza served fresh coffee and reheated bagels. Garrison’s team consisted of three male agents dressed in dark suits, and a droll blonde named Nan Perry.

“What just happened upstairs?” Garrison asked.

Peter took a moment to gather his thoughts. Saying too much would lead to trouble; too little, and the FBI would be no help at all. “I took another trip into the future, and saw our killer. The scene was exactly the same. I was outside his house, trying to run from him, and he shot me in the leg. He was getting ready to put a bullet in my head, when Liza shook me awake.”

“That’s intense,” Garrison said.

“The good news is I got a hard look at him. His face will be easier for me to remember when I sit down with your artist for a composite.”

“That’s a plus. Did anything else stand out?”

“Well, he said something strange. Right before he was going to shoot me, I asked him if he was worried that his neighbors might hear the gunshot. He replied that his neighbors wouldn’t save me. He called where he lived a hellhole.”

“What do you think he meant?”

“Hard to say. He lived in a nice area. It didn’t look like anything remotely resembling a hellhole.”

“Maybe something happened there that made him feel that way.”

“Could be.”

“Why do you keep going back there?”

“Believe me, it’s not by choice. An evil spirit called a shadow person is taking me.”

“Did this shadow person rip your place apart?”

Peter nodded and sipped his drink.

“What’s its motive? You must have some idea.”

Every psychic had a spirit which looked over his shoulder and protected him. Peter guessed the same was true for people who were in league with the Devil.

“It’s our serial killer’s guardian angel,” he said quietly.

“So those really exist,” Garrison said.

“They most certainly do.”

“And this serial killer has one.”

“That would be my guess.”

The kitchen fell silent. Peter hated when that happened. Garrison leaned forward on his elbows. He looked tired, but his eyes were sharp. “You talk with the spirits on a regular basis. Why not talk with them again, and ask them who this killer is. It can’t hurt, can it?”

Peter had been communicating with spirits since boyhood. There were rules to the game, and he said, “It doesn’t work like that. I can’t just cross over, and start asking questions.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t. I rarely speak when I’m on the other side.”

“What do you do, then?”

“I watch and listen.”

“Can’t you at least give it a try?”

He laughed under his breath. The other side was not gentle. Within its ever-shifting landscape of light and dark was a force that ruled with a firm, if not brutal hand. He likened it to the Old Testament: An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, where wars lasted for centuries and grudges were never settled. It was not a place where you wanted to spend eternity, and those who did suffered for it, every single moment of their wretched lives.

“No,” the young magician said. “You have to trust me on this.”

Garrison let out an exasperated breath and put down his mug. He looked ready to call it a night. “I’ll come by your theater with the artist tomorrow. What time works for you?”

“Come at four. We can do it in my dressing room between shows.”

“Four o’clock it is.” Garrison put his empty mug in the sink. One by one, his team filed out of the kitchen. “You need help cleaning up?” he asked at the door.

Peter stole a glance at Liza, who still looked upset. He needed to have a talk with her, and not with the FBI hanging around. “We’ll manage. Thanks for the offer.”

Peter walked the agents to the front door. The hallway was lined with rare magic playbills that he’d purchased at auction at Christie’s. Each was one-of-a-kind, and worth a fortune. Their frames had been smashed, and Garrison pointed at the ruined glass.

“Look at that,” he said. “The breaks in each frame are the same.”

Peter had a look. The breaks in the glass weren’t the same, they were identical. He wondered how that was possible. The spirits conformed to the laws of physics when visiting the real world, and the broken frames were an obvious violation of that.

“I need to take a photo of this,” Garrison said.

He snapped a series of photos on his iPhone. When he was finished, Peter walked him to the door. His team waited outside on the sidewalk.

“Sure you don’t need some help?” Garrison asked.

“We’re good,” Peter said.

He started to leave, then asked the inevitable final question. “Will it come back?”

“Probably. It hasn’t gotten what it wants.”

“Meaning you. I could leave two of my team to act as bodyguards.”

“They’ll only end up getting hurt.”

“Don’t be so sure. We deal with more bad stuff than you can imagine.”

Garrison didn’t get it. The shadow person existed in another dimension that was either light-years away, or right next door, and had the power to visit the real world whenever it chose. The FBI did not possess the means to stop it.

“We’ll manage. Thanks, anyway,” Peter said.

Their ride was a black GMC Terrain with needle antennas on the hood. The vehicle seemed to disappear as it drove away. Peter waved and shut the door.

“What a night. Ready to tackle this mess?”

Liza put her head on his chest and started to cry. Her evening had been one long horror show, and now he was asking her to clean up.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” he said.

“No, it’s probably a good idea.” She sniffled. “It will take my mind off things.”

“You sure?”

She answered him with a kiss, and climbed the stoop and went inside.

The living room had been hit the worst, so they decided to start there. Liza went to the kitchen to find a broom while he started to pick up pieces of broken illusions from the floor. A sizzling sound filled his ears. Without warning, the brownstone was plunged into darkness.

“Peter!” Liza called from the kitchen.

“I’m right here. Are you all right?”

“It’s back. I saw it out of the corner of my eye.”

He stumbled down the darkened hallway. “Don’t move. I’m coming.”

“Hurry. I’m scared.”

“Me, too.”

“Oh, great. Now I’m more scared.”

As he reached the entrance to the kitchen, a flash of white light exploded before his eyes. It had no sound, and continued to flash on and off like heat lightning. In the kitchen he found Liza huddled by the fridge, her hair standing on end as if electrified. Clutched in her hands was a frying pan she’d grabbed off the stove. He held her protectively against his chest.

“Make it go away,” she pleaded.

“Do you want me to go back to the other side?”

“No!”

“Then I can’t make it go away. We need to go outside, and hope it doesn’t follow us. Ghosts and spirits don’t like to be seen, so we should be okay.”

They headed for the front door still holding each other. Halfway down the hall, the electricity returned and the flashing stopped. In the living room, Butch was frantically clashing his cymbals. Spirits had a way of becoming attached to objects, and the shadow person had taken a liking to the automated toy panda on the mantel.

The clashing became more intense. So loud that Peter thought Butch might fall apart. Sticking his head into the living room, he gasped.

“Holy crap,” he said.

Liza jerked open the front door. “Don’t stop,” she said.

“Come here. You have to see this.”

“Peter!”

Love was based on trust. He grabbed Liza by the hand, and pulled her into the living room. She was afraid, but did not resist. She raised her hand to her mouth in utter disbelief.